


Five things that never happened to Rosie Cotton

by SharpestRose



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Gen, five things that never happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-29
Updated: 2011-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-20 20:19:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestRose/pseuds/SharpestRose





	Five things that never happened to Rosie Cotton

**One**

Mum and Da tell the boys every day to watch their mouths, to keep quiet and meek and mild when out and about. They don't bother to make a point of telling Rosie the same; she has the good sense to keep herself out of trouble. It's rare that they send her out on errands, anyroad.

That's the undoing of it, in the end. Because Rosie's always been a roamer, and it chafes her to stay close to home like a blind old biddy. So when the season's changing and the world seems so large and welcoming outside, she goes walking.

Sheltered, as she has been since things went bad, Rosie hasn't followed the changes in the Shire. She's no reason to worry when Mister Sackville-Baggins comes to her and says _you, Cotton girl. Take this message up the Hill, will you? There's a good lass._

Bag End is dark, and strange. Unaired, like the burrow of a sickening animal. Her skin crawls as she steps inside, calling a tentative _Hullo?_ into the gloom.

 _Hello there, little one,_ says a voice, and a thin white hand comes out of the dark and grabs her wrist. _My, aren't you lovely? Don't shudder so. It's a long time since there's been any visitors here since Lotho stopped coming by. You're just in time for dinner._

  
 **Two**

She's standing on the step with her mother when Mr Baggins comes back from his Adventure. There's trouble stirring, and Nibs is keeping an eye on them while the others go to sort it out.

"Mrs Cotton. Rose," he says by way of greeting. He's thinner than Rosie can remember ever seeing him, and his voice has a slow measured tone to it that wasn't there before.

"Evenin', Mr Frodo," Rosie's mother says. Rosie can't speak. She knew it already, has known since that morning in the spring when she woke and called out "Sam!" once, tears spilling down her cheeks, and put away all her dreams and wishing.

She knew Sam was dead, then, but to see it in Mr Baggins' face now and know it over again hurts her worse than she thought it could. Maybe it won't ever stop hurting completely.

"Rose," Mr Baggins says now.

"Did he do his job? Did he look after you proper?" she chokes out, and her voice barely sounds like her own. "Was he good?"

"There are tales of his bravery being told in the court of the King this very night," Mr Baggins answers her.

And it's not enough. It's something, but it's not enough. Nothing could be. Rosie looks at Mr Baggins and anything she might have been planning to say dies in her throat, because in his eyes is the same as what's in her head and heart. He knows sure as she does that it's not enough.

"You back to sort out the ruffians, then? See we're all right? We're keeping nicely. We've had to, with so many gone away without a word," she says, and it sounds horrible and sharp. Mr Baggins doesn't flinch.

"We'll set things to right, yes," he answers quietly. "But that's not why I came back." He hesitates for a moment. "He wanted you to be happy."

"Then he shouldn't have gone!" she shouts. "What, d'you think you can fix it? Give me money? Give his Gaffer an extra sack of potatoes this year for his loss?"

"Rosie!" her mother says, shocked and upset by the sudden outburst. "Keep your voice civil and quiet."

Bitterness rises in her throat, choking and thick and nauseating, but she's said her piece and has nothing else to add.

"I can't fix it," Mr Baggins says. "And I can't stay tonight, there's a lot of work to be done before the morning. I'm sorry that I lived where he died, Rose. You have no idea how sorry. But I will do what I can, in his stead."

With that, Mr Baggins is gone again, and Rosie laments for the first time in her life that she's not the sort to faint, and cannot escape from herself for even that short time.

  
 **Three**

She falls asleep down by the riverbank, as the warm sunlight laps at her ankles with the water. It seems as if she can't remember a time when she wasn't wishing and hoping for Sam to want her as a wife. Some days, it seems like that's all she's ever wanted.

And now he's asked, and she doesn't know how to answer. A year, he had. A year of adventures and sights and griefs and joys and horrors and wonders. A year which she spent waiting, hoping and wishing same as always.

Why not wait a little longer, since they've left it so long anyway? Why not another year? Why not two more? Enough time to _see_ , to wander through the places from the old fairy-stories, see the lands where Sam's name trips off minstrel lips.

"Wait for me?" she asks Sam the next day. He looks like she has stepped on his heart, and Rosie hates herself for a long pause. If he says that he can't wait, she doesn't know what she'll do. She'll be torn in two, sure as any hobbit ever was with two directions to choose between.

But, after that pause, Sam nods. "Aye, Rosie. I'll wait."

She kisses him then, as a promise and in thanks, and shoulders her bag, and steps onto the road.

 **Four**

She turns to her mother, eyes so wide that white shows all around, and grips at Marigold's wrist so tight that it will surely leave bruises.

"Send Sam away," she mutters. "Send him down for... for anything. Find a reason. I don't want him to be here. When -"

Another wave of pain cuts her words off and Rosie screams. "Now, Marigold!" she says, and Marigold wrenches her arm out of Rosie's grip.

"We need more clean linens!" her mother calls, and Rosie knows she's not supposed to push yet but it hurts so very, very much and there are little jolts of black lightning at the edges of her sight.

"Here, that's all that's left," she hears Mr Frodo say from somewhere near the door. "What else can I do to help?"

"Is... is Sam gone?" Rosie pants. The pain passes, for now.

"Yes, Marigold sent him to get May."

"Good." She falls back onto the pillows, hair glued to her cheeks in damp strands. "Good." The lightning is getting shockier, covering more of her vision.

"Please, I want to help," Mr Frodo says, and Rosie hears a word or two of her mother's hushed reply. _Nothing left to do. The baby might live yet, but..._

She wants to cry. To scream, and fight, and prove them wrong. _No!_ she thinks wildly, pressing her lips together in a thin line. _I didn't wait, I didn't waste a year, for it to end here._

"Please," she whispers. "Not like this."

Her hand clutches wildly at the air, needing contact as the pain begins again. It's Mr Frodo's hand that finds hers, three fingers and a thumb gripping tight as iron. Rosie shuts her eyes. Weeps to think of what will become of them, without her.

  
 **Five**

Night's fallen and the whole smial's lit up with a warm yellow glow. Sitting in her rocking chair by one of the front windows, watching the stars wink into being one by one, Rosie hums an old song to herself. The dinner's made, Elanor's drowsing peacefully in her cradle. Quiet has descended, and made everything gentle with its touch.

Rosie sits, and waits, and watches. The candle burns down. She goes over to her sleeping daughter and touches a yellow curl lightly. Wonders if anything the Elves can offer will ever match that which will be missed, as this child grows and lives and laughs.

When the last light goes out, Rosie goes to bed. The sheets are cold and endless around her, and still smell like Sam.


End file.
